


Shield

by JinjoJess



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Dangan Ronpa: Trigger Happy Havoc
Genre: Character Study, Despaircest, F/F, Sibling Incest, everything is implied in this one guys sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:55:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28302693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JinjoJess/pseuds/JinjoJess
Summary: After many years of failed attempts, Mukuro finally discovers a decent birthday/Christmas gift for Junko.
Relationships: Enoshima Junko/Ikusaba Mukuro
Comments: 1
Kudos: 17





	Shield

**Author's Note:**

> So! I wanted to post this yesterday on the 24th but yeah...that didn't happen.
> 
> Anyway, happy belated birthday to my darling despair daughters and Merry Christmas to all of you!  
> I considered moving over some of my older despaircest stuff from my tumblr since there's still so, so much fic to port, but instead I wrote something new!
> 
> Please enjoy!

“Ugh, this sucks.” Junko twirled her champagne glass, swishing the liquid inside as if it were a fine wine. “Christmas in France is so much better.”

Mukuro nodded once, feeling the harsh fibers of her ugly Christmas sweater digging into the back of her neck. What was this thing made of? Wool? It had to be wool, right? Or some kind of synthetic material made to resemble wool. So why did it feel like wearing several of those heavy duty kitchen sponges--the ones designed to scrape oil off especially greasy pans--sewn together into the hellish approximation of a shirt?

Of course, she couldn’t take it off. It was a gift, after all.

“Have you ever even spent Christmas in France?” Junko asked, eyes still trained onto the small whirlpool forming in her drink.

Mukuro silently shook her head. She hadn’t ever spent Christmas in France, mostly because they’d been in Germany when she’d run away, and in Turkey by the time December had rolled around. She had avoided France around the holidays, in fact. Too attractive a destination for their useless sperm donor.

Back then, her prime directive was to stay as far away from Junko as possible. She couldn’t be saved, otherwise.

Or so Mukuro had thought at the time.

“It’s...nice,” Junko said, her hand and the glass slowing to a halt. She shifted her gaze toward the far wall of the restaurant, where the waitstaff were swarming around the window that connected the dining area with the kitchen. It reminded Mukuro of the first time she’d found a wasp’s nest out in the woods during one of her frequent nature walks as a kid.

“Yeah?” she said, wishing Junko would pick up her fork soon. Protocol dictated that the most important person at the table should begin to eat first, but her steak was slowly cooling to room temperature in front of her. 

That was likely intentional, Mukuro realized.

“Eat your stupid steak,” Junko said, but her voice held no sting. She sounded...tired, resigned. “It’s your birthday too.”

Mukuro tilted her head and frowned. “Are you okay, Junko-chan?”

“I’m never okay, Onee-chan.”

“No, I mean… You don’t seem yourself.” Mukuro licked her dry lips, bits of dead skin raking the surface of her tongue. She moved to reach for Junko’s hand, but the material of the sweater scraped against her skin and she stopped, wincing. 

Junko’s eyes lazily drifted in Mukuro’s direction before settling back on her own drink. “Do you know what your problem is?”

“I have an inkling, but go ahead. Tell me.”

Junko rolled her eyes. “That isn’t going to cheer me up, you crusty gym sock. But anyway: your problem is that you’re a glass cannon.”

“A what now?”

“Ugh. A glass cannon. It’s a metaphor, dumbass. For something stupidly powerful, but easily broken.”

“You’re saying I’m fragile?”

“I’m saying you need to throw a few skill points into defense.” Junko slammed the champagne flute onto the table, drawing attention from a few of the surrounding tables. 

“I don’t need defense if I’m not going to get hit.”

“That’s exactly my fucking point. You’ve been doing your shitty, Western aikido or whatever-the-fuck for so long now that you’ve completely neglected protection.”

“I always kind of thought of that as your thing.”

“You do not want to go down this name pun road, you piece of shit.”

“I… I’m sorry.” Mukuro ground her molars together, willing her expression to stay compassionate (or at least, what she trusted passed for compassionate) as she reached out and placed a hand over Junko’s. 

Her nipples screamed in pain as the steel wool of the sweater shredded them; Junko had demanded that she wear nothing on her upper body except the sweater, citing that with Mukuro’s pathetic tits, she didn’t need a bra.

Normally, Junko would shake off any attempt at physical comfort, but rather than recoil, she pinched the bridge of her nose with her other hand and began to weep. 

“Seriously, Junko-chan, it wasn’t a name pun, I swear.” Mukuro’s mind raced, trying to find a way to explain. 

What she had meant was that protection, security, defense...those were all part of Junko’s wheelhouse. As if she’d wanted to live up to her “shield child” name kanji, Junko had always been guarded. Concealed, shelled, withdrawn. Never exposed, never vulnerable.

Even now: Mukuro wanted to tell Junko, to reassure her, that she understood that she wasn’t really crying right now. That she was aware it was just a show for the tables around them, to reinforce her own aggressive femininity--and therefore helplessness--to this restaurant, to Japan, to the world at large, so that when the second part of the combo walloped them in the jaw, it’d be all the more shocking.

The school therapist had told her that it was common for twins to not want to step on each others’ toes. That there was a natural compulsion to try and cover each others’ blindspots and weaknesses, to not intrude on their personhood.

“That was why you ran away, wasn’t it?” Gekkougahara had asked, that irritatingly gentle smile never leaving her lips. “To give your sister room to grow into her own person?”

Mukuro supposed that while she wasn’t completely correct, since the more dire issue had been that Mukuro herself was a disgusting, corrupting influence and a failure of a big sister, Gekkougahara maybe had a point. 

All this time, Mukuro had been sharpening herself into a knife, a spear, with which to be Junko’s vanguard. To throw herself into danger so that Junko wouldn’t have to. To be her attack dog, her muscle, the living, flesh-and-blood threat she could dangle over others if she so desired. 

But in retrospect, it was obvious that she’d been leaving all of the hard work of protection to Junko. Covering up their tracks, laying out fool-proof plans, crunching the numbers to come up with the best alibi, the best disguise, the best pretense for being where they needed to be. Junko was a tactician, to be sure, but with that she was also responsible for camouflage and planning for the worst case scenario. 

“I don’t need a glass cannon,” Junko growled, her voice barely audible above the ambient noise of the restaurant. “I don’t need someone who’s not going to stick around. What the hell am I supposed to do with you if you go and make a name pun of yourself, Corpsey?”

“I’ll learn to tank, then,” Mukuro said, squeezing Junko’s hand. She resisted the urge to brush Junko’s bangs out of her eyes--people were still watching, after all.

“What do you think this has all been for?” Junko picked at the fabric of the sweater sleeve with her thumb and forefinger. “Why do you think I do all of this?”

Ah.

The same reason that, back in Fenrir, Metz used to lunge at her with no warning in the middle of the night, or during a meal.

“To...train me?”

“Christ, you’re stupid.”

Junko wrenched herself out of Mukuro’s grasp and stood up. Her mascara had left long, dark streaks down the sides of her cheeks, her eyes red and swollen.

Mukuro heard murmurs from the other diners around them and swallowed the lump in her throat. She studied her sister’s destroyed make-up--her war paint--keeping her expression even.

“You deserve better,” she said, allowing her brow to wrinkle and look angry. “You shouldn’t have to be with someone who doesn’t appreciate everything you do.”

“Onee-chan, stop. I don’t want to talk about this in public,” Junko said, her voice just loud enough to take advantage of the restaurant’s acoustics.

Mukuro resisted the urge to break into a wide grin; only a fool celebrated her first successful strike.

“I’m just saying,” she said, debating whether or not to stand up, ultimately deciding Junko would appreciate the flair. “You deserve a partner who can meet your every need. You’re my sister, and I want that for you.”

Junko’s face was turning red now, her body language slipping into something embarrassed, but Mukuro could see the delighted glint in her eyes.

“Seriously, stop. I don’t need this right now. This is the worst birthday of my life.” She turned and stormed out the front entrance, likely heading to a karaoke box to make a few anonymous calls to celebrity gossip magazines about Enoshima Junko’s secret beau and their recent messy break up.

Mukuro ground her teeth, in part to prevent herself from following Junko and in part to keep from screaming at the sweater’s continued assault on her flesh. She balled her hands into fists, made a show of trembling, then dropped back into her chair with a grunt.

It took the terrified waitress nearly five minutes to approach the table when she called for the check.

Mukuro held her dark expression all the way back to the dorms. Even Naegi had scampered out of her way when she’d arrived back on campus; a testament to her newfound acting skill. 

Following a powerful door slam, Mukuro released a sigh and collapsed face first onto their dorm bed. This was exhausting.

As much as she hated to admit it, the little pink-haired runt might prove to be somewhat useful in her coming training. 

Mukuro rolled over to pick up her phone and schedule a visit to the Kibougamine-affiliated elementary school when she noticed a text.

Only one person ever texted her.

_ > gotta hand it to ya, tiny tits, that coulda been a lot worse. still pretty shit tho. make sure u schedule a time and place to go practice with our kyawaii little monster sometime soon to tighten up ur atrocious acting so i don’t have to keep covering for ur ass.  _

Mukuro smiled, her thumbs methodically typing a response.

_ > Ok Junko-chan _

_ > if u can manage to not fuck this up, we may be onto something here. teaching some dipshit like u who’s always so obvious and simple how to use optics is some top tier shit.  _

_ > Glad I can help _

_ > gotta a long way to go tho. may have to push u to ur limit, u kno? _

_ > Whatever it is, I can take it _

_ > gud. now, delete these texts like a good girl and when i get home, i expect you to be in that sweater and _only_ that sweater, u got it? _

As a special birthday and Christmas treat, Mukuro allowed herself to read the texts a few more times before dutifully erasing them.

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers: They both later find that Mukuro's limit is a shitload of spears.
> 
> Incidentally, my WoL character in FFXIV is Mukuro, and I've been trying to level her as a Dark Knight and Gunbreaker lately, so yeah, Mukutank has been on my mind.  
> (She's a max level dragoon, too, because I thought that'd be funny.)


End file.
